


Bittersweet

by malfoysdyad



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Draco, F/M, Post-Second Wizarding War, REDEEMED DRACO AND REDEEMED DRACO ONLY, draco befriends a muggle man (he still adheres to the international statute of wizarding secrecy), sad draco, they're all friends now (or at least forgiven)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:00:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24309382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malfoysdyad/pseuds/malfoysdyad
Summary: Dedicated to my Quacchive girls and the other Dramiones on Twitter. Love you all for your support.Beautiful moodboard by the lovely @expvctopatronum please go follow her on Twitter (she's an absolute gift and gem to humankind).Everyone go thank and follow @dramionees for giving me the prompt idea, although she didn't expect me to take it in this direction.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 17
Kudos: 39





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to my Quacchive girls and the other Dramiones on Twitter. Love you all for your support. 
> 
> Beautiful moodboard by the lovely @expvctopatronum please go follow her on Twitter (she's an absolute gift and gem to humankind).
> 
> Everyone go thank and follow @dramionees for giving me the prompt idea, although she didn't expect me to take it in this direction.

Draco Lucius Malfoy did not cry. 

He didn’t cry when he was informed that his father had died. Nor when Malfoy Manor and his inheritance were closed off from him. Or the time where his mother had disappeared from his life, leaving behind only a note telling him that she couldn’t bear to come back to England; not until she could detach herself from the crimes committed by her late husband. His friends had come and gone, his family broken, and his entire world was being rocked and yet the tears still refused to shed. 

Until Granger had walked out of his life. 

He had sat on the floor, head back against the recently slammed door, unable to control the stinging in his eyes or the shaking of his body. He tried everything to stop the tears from falling: staring at his hands and mentally tracing the lines across his palms and knuckles, listening to the ticking of the clock across the room, even out his breathing to slow down his racing heart.

But none of that worked. Looking at his hands only reminded him of the times Granger’s fingers were entwined with his own; the number of times he had used these very hands to bring her pleasure or to cup her face as he brought her closer for a kiss. Each tick of the clock only thundered loudly in his ears to tell him that another moment without her had passed. And breathing? He wanted to stop for there was no point. Not when his one source of happiness stormed away from and vowed to never see him in the rest of this life or any others. 

He was on the losing end of a battle with his emotions and his windows of victory were closing in fast. And yet he still refused to cry at that moment. The sticky habit of pride was coming back as he started to mentally recite, 

_ I am Draco Lucius Malfoy. I was raised to be the best and to accept only the best. I shall do nothing to tarnish the name of Malfoy. _

It was a stupid habit leftover from his past as an asshole child. He wanted to break the habit but ended up finding it useful for whenever he needed to exert control over his emotions and thoughts quickly; it was especially helpful when dealing with the boggart-headed idiots at the Ministry. Did he hate doing it? Yes. Every single moment of it. But did it work? Unfortunately. And he didn’t really have any other options at the moment; he was still struggling with healthily dealing with his emotions. Especially now. 

It took many ticks of the clock and too much mental recitation before his breathing became steady and deep, filling his lungs with the much needed oxygen. As his breathing became normal, the shaking stopped and his heart rate climbed back down. After a few more moments, he was able to move his stiff limbs as he stood up from the doorway to the surprise that the daylight had faded, leaving the world shrouded in an inky blackness. How fitting. 

He dragged himself to the washroom, where he stripped his body of the sweat-soaked clothes and jumped into the shower to cleanse away the days’ filth; physical and emotional. The warm water rained over him, soothing what was still shaking from his fit earlier. He stayed in much longer than he anticipated he would but he didn’t care; it’s not like there was anyone else to share the bathroom with. 

Hair heavy with water and head empty of thoughts, mechanical movements got him through the rest of the night. Brush his teeth. Put on his nightclothes. Mindlessly rub the towel against his head until it no longer resembles a soaked mop. Leave the washroom. Clean up the mess in the living room. His mind was still somewhere else, but he pushed to notice the small details of his routine to keep him anchored to Earth. The minty flavour of his toothpaste as he was brushing. The silk that ran like water against his fingers as he got dressed for bed. How many times he had to rub the nubbly towel against his hair before it stopped dripping. How messy his living room happened to be. That was as far as he got until his mind finally caught up with him. He was mindlessly putting dishes in the sink to wash tomorrow when he realised what he was holding in his hands: a bowl of melted mint chocolate chip ice cream. A frozen muggle treat. The kind that sat in the freezers of their flat and cottage. What Granger never seemed to get enough of. 

_ Granger.  _

He was aware that he dropped the bowl from the shattering sound and the splatter of melted ice cream across the floor and on his feet. His body began to shake and his heart rate started to skyrocket as he panicked. The air had been stolen from his lungs once again and his head was starting to become full again. There was no way that mental recitation could work; not with all the memories performing a symphony inside his head. Combine that with Granger’s scent mercilessly flooding his senses and he became a lost cause, clutching his head in a silent scream. There was too much of her here, manifesting every bit of him and assaulting him through his weakness for her. There was nothing he could do, so he did the one thing he never failed at: running. 

His feet flew out of the kitchen, the front door, and onto the street. He ran and ran, the wind whistling and his bare feet hitting the ground with every step. The ground changed from the paved roads of Bibury to bumpy dirt to the slippery grass of fields as he continued to run away. Away from the cottage they shared. Away from everything about her. He ran until his legs gave out and buckled underneath his weight, and he toppled to the ground face first. Not that he cared. 

There he was, collapsed in some grassy field, helpless against the torture in his mind. His throat tightened and his eyes stung again so he squeezed them shut and curled into a fetal position with an iron grip, unable to do anything but let the memories continue to assault him. And they did, their individual songs creating a torturous melody that consumed every bit of his sanity and stability. 

So he gave in. 

The first sob pushed out of his throat and it felt like acid in his mouth; the bitterness spreading throughout his body. Over two decades of suppressing emotions was starting to come out with these choking noises and there was no stopping them after one came out. Sounds he didn’t even know he was capable of creating spilled out of his mouth. His cheeks became a temporary reservoir for an endless river of tears that streamed out of his eyes before they rolled off his face and into the sodden ground. He struggled to get on his hands and knees as his body was wracked with the shudders of his emotional outburst. After failing to stand up, he pounded his fist into the ground and screamed, raw and loud; after all, there didn’t seem to be a person or building within 5 kilometres of him to hear. When his throat could no longer sustain the scream, the sobs ferociously took over again, and he realised that he was blubbering one word over and over again: Hermione. 

He had gone mad with emotion as he choked her name out with each heaving sob. It was a plea, a cry, for her to come back. And he waited. He waited for her to appear next to him, to hold him in her warm embrace as he wore himself out crying, her soothing voice saying his name gently, her presence telling him that everything was alright. But the only thing that came was another inhumane sound out of his mouth as a second round of heavy sobs escaped him. His fist once again pounded into the ground while his pleading became more desperate and his sobs became louder. He was no longer Draco Lucius Malfoy, charming and composed wizard, but an animalistic barbarian who had gone looney: looney with decades of grief and bitter emotions finally ruining him. 

There was no telling how long he cried; there was no way to count the hours. The sky was still an unforgiving shade of black: the colour of nightmares and misery. There was no sound except his screams, which mingled with the relentless howl of the night wind. Minus the sliver of moonlight, there was no light anywhere; no street lamps, headlights, or even a twinkle of a star. It was almost like the world shifted to match the darkness inside of him that threatened to consume him again. He almost considered it, pondering in the brief moment between a scream and a sob, but that thought dissipated immediately as another image of Granger flashed in his mind and set him off again for a third round of insanity. 

The silken collar of his nightshirt was soaked from the tears that trailed down his face and neck. The rest of his night clothes were covered in grass stains and dirt. Dirt caked the fist that he pounded into the ground. Vocal chords were becoming hoarse with the excessive screaming, sobbing, and pleading. Limbs ceasing the shaking but only because his body was sapped of its energy. He was dizzy, shaken, and weak; even his mind was starting to falter in torturing him. His arms collapsed and his upper body fell against the ground, knocking the wind out of him. Finally, he had cried himself to exhaustion. 

Sleep replaced the sobs as fatigue settled into every cranny of his body, and he somehow managed to roll over onto his back to stare at the sky before another kind of darkness filled his sight. The last thing he remembered before he blacked out was his lips forming the words and the quiet whimper of, “Please forgive me, love.”, escaping his mouth before his consciousness left him and everything became the same shade of black. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally dipped my toes into the Dramione fic writing after a month of debating, and I already love what I'm doing! (The inspiration and words just flow out of me)
> 
> @ Feltson Fight Club: If I start lackin', please bully me into writing hehe
> 
> @ The rest of you: Thanks for reading! See you with Chapter 2!


	2. Chapter 2

Pitch black. Just like a veil was pulled over his eyes. With the bliss of unconsciousness came the helplessness against his own mind. There was no escaping his brain as it conjured up jagged images and senses from his past. The brush of his mother’s hand against his cheek. Sitting on the train with Crabbe and Goyle. The musty smell of the old books in the Hogwarts library. Pansy’s hands on him. Snape’s cold look as he glared at everyone. Getting punched in the face by Granger. Granger. She was everywhere. A swish of a skirt, the smell of her shampoo, a busy mane of curls; everything was Granger to him. It was like a never ending carousel where the only view was haunting him.

It startled him awake, drenched in cold sweat and gasping for air. A rare morning of sunlight assaulted his eyes and grass tickled his skin. He felt weak and miserable as he struggled to sit up in the grass. In the light, he was able to properly see his surroundings in a daze. Wherever he was, it wasn’t Bibury. It was some grassy field that was most likely kilometres away from the cottage. The grass stains and dirt on his hands and feet looked even worse in the day and he almost recoiled at the thought of himself. He had gone feral last night.

The visual haze went away as his eyes adjusted. In the far distance, if he squinted hard, he could see unnaturally coloured blurs: Bibury. It wouldn’t be hard to find his way; especially since his heavy footfalls from the previous night were evident throughout the grass and dirt; but he didn’t know if he had the will. Rationally, going back to clean up, pack, and floo back to the flat in London would be the smartest decision. Unfortunately, rationality was the LEAST important thing on his mind. He felt like he had been crucio-ed: body useless, head pounding, sanity gone. Out of habit he reached for his wand; as he always did for inconveniences; but it wasn’t there. He angrily shouted but the only sound that came out was a squeak. Just his fucking luck. Even his own voice left him, rendering him useless until the stiffness subsided and he could make his way back to the village.

Hours must have passed by before he tried to stand up again. He was getting sick of watching the clouds and decided he needed to get back or he’d never get the energy to leave. Miraculously, his legs held him up as he tentatively took a step forward. No wobbling or dizziness ensued, so he took another step. That’s how it went: step by step through the grass and dirt. The wind still howled in his ears (albeit much kinder than it did last night) and his body burned from exertion, but his stubborn nature refused to let him quit until he walked all 5 kilometres back to the village.

He was slowly walking over a dirt road when a screech diverted his attention away from the trek. He turned to see a car in the road, the driver looking frantic. Clearly a Muggle man and not anything special. Turning back to what mattered more, he continued to walk until a voice floated over to him, “Are you alright?”

Diverted again, he looked at the man with obvious irritation. Usually one look from him backs off even the insistent ones. It didn’t work for this man, whose Western Country twinged in his ears again as he asked, “Do you need help?”

“No thank you,” he hoarsely snapped, “I’m quite capable of walking.”

His foot didn’t even make the next step before the man spoke again. “You have grass and dirt stains all over, you’re barefoot, and it looks like the devil himself beat the piss out of you. You are not fine.”

Opening his mouth to let loose a string of insults that would for sure drive the man away, he tried to speak and the only sound that came out was a squeak. His damn vocal chords didn’t work again.

That did it for the man. He stopped the car and got out to approach him. “Do you need me to take you to the hospital? Cirencester is only about 15 minutes away.”

“No, thank you.” he said, barely audible. He started walking away but much to his building annoyance, the dreadful man followed him and kept talking to him.

“Listen, kid. Most people at this point would have already given up and driven off. And I should do the same, since you’re being stubborn. But I’m not an arsehole nor can the dad in me drive off knowing that I left some kid on the side of the road.”

He rolled his eyes and kept walking. The blasted man kept talking to him so he started to tune him out, but not before he caught, “We can do this the easy or hard way. Since you aren’t interested in easy, we’ll go straight to hard.”

The words barely registered in his brain before he found himself being picked up and slung over this man’s shoulder like a sack of Galleons. Once the initial shock of being hoisted over a shoulder wore off, he started squirming and hoarsely trying to shout. “Put me down this fucking instant! Get your hands off of me!”

“No can do. I have to at least take you to where you’re planning to trek.”

“Get you bloody hands off of me! I’ll have you know that my father will hear about this!”

It slipped out of his mouth before he even realised what he said. When it registered, his entire body went stiff, thinking about the man who he called his father for 18 years. His head started to pound and swirl with old memories, leading his head back up to the clouds. He didn’t notice that he was being set down in the front seat of the man’s car and had his seatbelt put on for him or that the man got into the driver’s seat and sat there, staring at him. It was only when the man tapped his shoulder that he was jerked back to Earth. “So where do I need to take you?”

“Bibury.” he said as he sank into the seat, nearly slumping with exhaustion. He planned to enjoy the minutes of unexpected rest and sanctuary before he had to go back into the cottage. Even if it was in the company of a Muggle man who had no regard for silence. No, he didn’t have a problem with Muggles; he outgrew that stupid prejudiced stage in his life. But this particular man was driving him insane. He introduced himself as Oliver Evanns and in 15 minutes, Oliver somehow managed to fit his entire life story, how his family was, a description of the tomatoes he was growing in his garden, and how the weather was wonderful in the U.K. for the first time since spring started. “Merlin’s beard”, he whispered to himself, not realising that Oliver had gone silent and could hear him.

“Merlin’s beard? I’ve never heard of that neighbourhood,” Oliver questioningly said as he pulled into Bibury, “are you sure you don’t want me to take you to the hospital?”

If he wasn’t already convinced that this was a Muggle man, this absolutely took the cake. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he shook his head, “No. Please just drop me off by *that* cottage over there.” and sank back into the seat, trying to fight the nausea that was creeping up on him just by seeing a glimpse of the roof.

For all the shit he mentally said about Oliver, he was thankful for his non-stop chatter; it distracted him from reality. Now, sitting in silence as Oliver pulled the car up to the cottage, he was too aware of his own mind. Mechanical movements were his friend again as he pushed the car door open and walked up the pathway to the cottage. He was vaguely aware that Oliver was following him but didn’t stop him; the company kept the nausea from making a full return. At the front door, they stood awkwardly for a few minutes before Oliver cleared his throat, “Listen, kid. This is my phone number. And my address is in there...in case you ever need anything. My home is always open for you.”

He mumbled a “thank you” as Oliver gave him a weak smile, “Take care, kid.” he said before walking back to his car and driving off.

He stared at the piece of paper that Oliver gave him. It did, in fact, have a phone number and an address. Oliver also scribbled a smiling face on the back of the slip of paper. Fitting. He shoved the paper into the front pocket of his nightshirt as he blankly stared at where he was now.

Even just looking at the cottage hurt him. His head was too fuzzy to conjure memories, but he didn’t need a visual; he saw everything. Tired eyes raked over every inch of the exterior and his breathing became shallow again before he finally pushed the door open and stepped into the front room. Bits and pieces of last night returned to him: their raised voices bouncing across the linoleum floors, the slam of a door and the shatter of a bowl, anger radiating off of Granger, a tinge of blood in his mouth as he bit his cheek to stop from screaming, the irritating tick of the clock as he lost all will; the details of it were piecing together well. Too well. He sank back down to the floor, head in his hands, and he sat. There were no tears or sounds; he had cried himself out and his vocal chords felt like hell; but the rawness was still fresh. He fucking missed Granger.

A part of his subconscious kept yelling at him, telling him he was an absolute fucking ninny for sitting on the floor when he could be doing something. But he just sat there, many thoughts, head full. To try and calm down, he decided to go back to focusing on small details. Sunlight filtering through the gauzy curtains. Dust particles lazily floating around the air. Cracks in the floor where he sat. Granger’s olive scarf casually tossed across the back of the sofa. A sticky green stain across the kitchen floor from the ice cream. Notes of Lily of the Valley and sandalwood from her perfume lingered everywhere. Just like last night, the whole fucking cottage threatened to choke him with everything Granger. This time, instead of resisting, he let the sadness envelope him; it was the world’s coldest blanket. For the third time in 24 hours, he sat there. To him, time wasn’t of the essence; there was nothing to rush for. His body eagerly agreed to the idea of doing nothing and drowsiness settled in. Not resisting, he conked out almost immediately and, thank Merlin, he fell into a dreamless sleep.

When he woke, the lazy afternoon sunlight danced through the windows. He was still stiff but, to his relief, the pounding pulse in his head became a dull thud rather than a sharp stab. At that point, rationality kicked in and he resumed the tedious task of cleaning up the cottage. He hated chores (like the spoiled brat he still was) but the repetition of doing small tasks calmed the storm inside him; using his hands meant he could force his focus on the task at hand instead of letting his mind wander. As he worked, he began to realise how thankful he was for all the housework that distracted him enough for a few hours of clarity.

By the time the sun was setting, the cottage was spotless, he felt physically semi-decent, and he was aware how gross he was from sweat and dirty nightclothes. He stripped down to his boxers and walked into the bedroom to pick up clean clothes for after his shower.

It was like a landmine for him: everything about the two of them was stronger in here. The bed was still unmade from "activities" and sleep two nights ago, their clothes strewn about, trunks messily unpacked. He clenched his hands into fists as he practically ran out of the room before the memories started spewing out of his head. The slam of a bathroom door and there he was, gripping the sides of the sink and trying to breathe normally. He looked up at the mirror and flinched at what he saw: bloodshot, wild eyes weighed down by dark bags, borderline sickly skin, mussed, matted hair with flecks of dirt...it was horrifying to him what he had become in one night. Tearing his eyes away from the mirror, he tore off his clothes, got in the shower, and turned on the water. The dirt melted off of him and swirled down the drain, away and free. He just stood there, not moving, as the water slowly turned cold and goosebumps raised against his skin. A shiver ran through him, and he actually started to wash himself under the freezing shower. He scrubbed himself until he was tingling and pink; almost like he was trying to match the rawness inside his heart.

When he was dried and dressed, he scooped his dirty clothes off the floor and quickly picked up the scattered clothes in the bedroom and tossed them into the washer, slamming the top shut. He went back to mental recitation as he put in the detergent and softener and started the cycle, tidied up the bedroom, then flopped on the couch to stare at the ceiling. When the washer finally beeped, he yanked out the wet clothes and used a hot-air charm to dry them quickly so he could use the pack charm to stow away everything that was brought from the flat.  
Both trunks at the ready, he did one last lap around the cottage before he dragged the trunks over to the fireplace and took out a handful of Floo powder. “Home.” he clearly enunciated, and the emerald flames appeared to take him back to the flat.

He tripped over one of the trunks and tumbled out of the fireplace onto the floor of the flat. What was usually a warm, welcoming sight at the end of the day became the opposite: cold and empty. Foolishly, he half-expected Granger to be here, curled up in her usual chair with a book or a stack of reports from work, greeting him with a smile that could light up even the dimmest of days. His cheeks flushed with anger at his naive thinking and he dragged the trunks to the bedroom to put away the contents. He had finished putting away his trunk and was opening Granger’s dresser to put away her clothes when the emptiness of the drawers punched him in the gut. He blinked, thinking his eyes were tricking him. Nope. He rubbed his eyes, but the drawers were still empty. Feeling his panic building, he ran over to the closet and pulled the door open to find that only his clothes remained; not even the hangers her clothes were on remained. That really set off his panic and he started to yank open every drawer and cupboard and search every shelf, nook, and cranny for anything of her.

Nothing remained. Just like the bedroom, it was like she had never been here. The kitchen was depleted of her favourite snacks and sweets. Shelves of her trinkets and books were left bare. Any pictures they had taken together had vanished off the walls and even her favourite rug and Crookshank’s toys vanished off the floor. He felt like he had been Obliviated, but his memories were still intact. No, she had just packed up and left, leaving him with nothing of her. He sank to his knees unknowingly and the tears started up again, slow and fat, dripping down his cheeks. This wasn’t another feral emotional outburst but the grief of a man who had lost everything that mattered to him. He would have given up everything: the flat, his inheritance, the clothes on his back. Just for her to come back.

For a while, the only sounds were dull *taps* as his tears hit the wooden floors; the storm in him was only just starting. The throbbing headache and shaking returned as he silently sobbed. Even his rationality abandoned him and left him to rot in a trap of his own making. At least with last night, he had a subconscious telling him that she would be here, that everything would be okay. But now, after seeing all of her erased away, all foolish hope had been shattered and he had no idea what he was supposed to do from here.

He should have owled someone or even sent a Patronus with a message, but he wanted to be alone. Company might have been ideal but his foul mood would have driven everyone away. All he could really do right now was climb into bed and plead to his mind to not wreck him even further by playing the non-stop movie of Granger. So that’s what he did, or at least tried to do. He walked back into the bedroom and ended up just staring at the bed for a long while.

The bed was a sacred place to him because comfort played a critical role in his life. He didn’t care about the bed frame or style but the mattress had to be the perfect ratio of firm to soft, the sheets had to be 1,200 count (nothing more, nothing less), and the pillows were to be sheathed in silk cases only (he refused to budge on any of those preferences). He would have preferred a green-and-silver bed set (after all, Slytherin loyalty didn’t die after the final year at Hogwarts), but he opted for a soft cream-coloured just so that neither he or Granger would complain about the colour scheme. Actually, that’s how most of the flat was: neutral tones galore. There were (or used to be) hints of red-and-gold and green-and-silver running through from their personal belongings and clothes, but the majority of the flat was a neutral ground, free of any colour rivalry.

He was so lost in remembering the first day that they moved into this flat. It was spring of 2002, three years after they started dating. They had talked about moving in together about a year prior, but they didn’t realise how difficult it was for two wizards to find a damn flat in the city of London that not only had a fireplace but suited BOTH of their tastes. The constant combing through any listed ones on the market and bickering with Granger about how it didn’t fit them: the walls were too short, the fireplace was unreliable, the bedroom was too small for all their belongings, there was no room for Crookshanks’s belongings...the list of complaints was endless. And it absolutely didn’t help that their tastes were vastly different.  
They had been at this for about 5 months when they stumbled across a quaint property on Causton Street. Granger practically pulled his arm as she called for more details and, later, they were viewing the flat.

It was their perfect home. It was in Westminster (although distance didn’t matter because of the Floo network), had a fireplace, came furnished, and lots of light, Pimlico and Vauxhall stations were nearby for Granger’s use of the Tube, and there was more than enough space for the two of them and Crookshanks. The giddiness that she had as they apparited to Gringotts to exchange his wizarding money for Muggle currency was infectious, and he found himself unable to not smile and laugh as she nearly bounced off her toes with excitement.  
Those were the good memories. But now, they left him feeling colder than ever as he pulled back the covers and tucked himself into bed. Even with all the comfort surrounding him, he spent all night tossing and turning. The bed was too big without the warmth of Granger beside him.

He longed for her to be there, chestnut curls splayed out across the pillow, kicking him in irritation for moving too much as he slept. He wanted to pull her close and not let her go, ever. But he had to settle for hugging her pillow and breathing in the smell of whatever hair products and potions she put in her hair before bed. It obviously wasn’t the same, but he had to take whatever he had before he spiralled again.

As he reached for her pillow, something cold and round brushed against his fingers from between the mattress and headboard. Confused, he moved his hand around until he found the object: a compact of sorts. He pried it out and upon seeing it, he immediately started crying again. It was a mirror compact that he had given to her two years ago, and that she had carried with her everyday that first year. It was his mum’s, and seeing that she had no use for it anymore, he gave it to Granger because he just wanted to give her the best. There was no special meaning or milestone tied to it; it was just a gift. Nonetheless, he saw her carry it everywhere that first year (the emeralds-laid-in-gold design was hard not to miss), and every time he saw her take it out to use or just to look at, a smile bloomed across his face.

Now, in present time, he was holding the compact in his hands and running his fingers over the artfully arranged emeralds. Then he popped it open just out of curiosity and found that she had cut and pasted a picture of them over the bottom half of the compartment. Wanting to snap it shut but unable to, he just stared at the smiling faces in the picture.

Crying was inevitable after seeing that, but his vocal chords had finally joined him again and he wept loudly while hugging the pillow and clutching the compact. The emeralds dug into his skin as his grip on it grew tighter and his sobs grew louder. He was sure that his neighbours could hear his wails through the thick walls at this point, but he didn’t care; it’s not like they would ever understand what kind of pain he was in.

It was another lonely night where he slowly cried himself empty until drowsiness took over. Even as he fell asleep, his grip on the compact and pillow didn’t lessen. In fact, as he closed his eyes, he could just pretend that it was Granger he was hugging, and that he wasn’t a miserable sack of shit who couldn’t cope with the reality that his girlfriend wasn't here.

If only he could keep this charade up for much longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Staying up until 4 am to write the last few days? More likely than you think :)
> 
> Thank you for the comments and kudos! (The support has driven me to write more and faster!)
> 
> *IMPORTANT NOTE*  
> As much as I have agreed to stay on a schedule, I will not be posting chapter 3 in the usual time frame of 3-5 days. Because the deep-rooted racism and corrupt system that we are living in has one again claimed an innocent life, the Black Lives Matter movement needs to have more focus and support behind it; it's not an appropriate time for me to be publishing and plugging chapter 3 on my twitter. So, please, go sign petitions, donate (if you are able), protest, share info; do anything that will bring an end to this corruption and finally bring justice for the innocent people who have been murdered in cold blood and their grieving families. Thank you for understanding, and I will see you all when it is a more appropriate time to post.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My plan is to get back on track with the 3-5 day upload schedule, but this is your friendly reminder that Black Lives Matter have and will always matter. Keep signing petitions, donating, sharing, and supporting. Thanks for your patience; enjoy!

He had decided that emotional hangovers were a thousand times worse than regular ones, and vowed to never complain about the latter ever again. 

Because he had requested two weeks off for he and Granger’s holiday, he still had 11 days to kill before having to go back to mind-numbing work. During this time, he didn’t leave his bed except to use the bathroom. Hunger evaporated away, exhaustion only came when he had gone a few nights not sleeping at all, and his only personality trait became staring at the ceiling or at the photo inside her compact. At this point, there was a permanent imprint of the compact’s design in his hand from clutching it and his mattress was starting to sag because of his constant weight on his side of it. That’s how he knew he was really gone at that point; he didn’t care about the comforts of his life being disrupted. 

Unsurprisingly, no one owled for him or Floo-ed into his flat. His only assumptions were that Granger had said something to everyone in passing, making him look like a fucking arsehole, or no one knew what the fuck had happened and they all assumed that he and Granger were still at their Bibury cottage (“for a fuck-fest”, as he knew fucking Theo eloquently phrased it when he left the room). Either way, his only company during this time was the ceiling fan that she had insisted on installing on moving day. He watched its constant motion with lackluster eyes. Round and round it went, stuck in a cycle of a singular circle, kicking up little pieces of dust that he could see dancing through the air in the light pouring through his window. The fan was a perfect metaphor for his life: it was a never ending game of misery that refused to leave him alone.

During a rare bathroom trip, he caught sight of himself in the mirror and visibly flinched at the sight. It was like seeing his post-emotional breakdown self again, but worse; his bags were heavier, skin looking sickly, all the light in his eyes died, and black spots and stars danced in his vision if he did anything more than shift his position in the bed. He was slowly but surely becoming a ghost of himself; almost like he had never recovered from the traumatic shit he went through as a sixth and seventh year at Hogwarts. 

It was day 9? 10? (he lost track of time) when he accidentally rolled off the bed in a bid to reach for the compact on his nightstand. He hit the floor with a *thud* and weakly yelped in pain when a high-pitched voice frantically asked, “Is Draco Malfoy okay, sir?”

He nearly screamed as he jumped right up, adrenaline suddenly giving him the power to scramble up and try and run out of the room, away from whoever the fuck just intruded his flat. As he was trying to open his door, the voice asked again, “Is Draco Malfoy okay, sir?”

His head whipped around frantically, trying to search for the source of the voice before something caught his eye down by the floor. It was a house elf. Judging by the dress, it was a female, and she looked up at him with concern as she asked a third time, “Is Draco Malfoy okay, sir?”

“How do you know my name?” he hoarsely asked as he continued to fumble with the doorknob.

“Hermione Granger’s boyfriend sir! Miss always talks about you when she visits Winky at Hogwarts!” said the elf, beaming up at him.

So this was Winky. The house elf that kicked off that blasted S.P.E.W. movement during fourth year. He remembered the buttons and tales of Granger shaking a box and badgering Gryffindors to join. Yes, bright-eyed, optimistic fourth-year Granger was a force, although he didn’t notice it at the time; he was too busy making fun of her and her organisation like the fucking idiot he was. 

Looking at Winky set off a fresh wave of painful memories---most of them based on their early years at Hogwarts when he was still a prejudiced arsehole---and his eyes stung like the Dickens while he miserably failed to contain his sadness. Winky didn’t notice though, because she had opened the door and was poking around the rest of the flat, “Is Hermione Granger here, sir? Winky must discuss something with her!”

“Discuss what?”

“Anniversary plans sir! Hermione wishes to--”

Winky was cut off by the sudden roar of green flames in his fireplace. Out tumbled a frantic and angry Theo, who scrambled up yelling, “Winky! What the fuck are you doing here? You know you’re not supposed to apparate here! You can’t talk about that with him! Stop talking!” 

Winky yelped as another roar of green flames appeared, and Pansy gracefully walked out, dusting the ashes off of an expensive-looking coat while shouting at Theo to stop yelling at Winky. A third round of flames allowed Blaise to intrude his living room, who immediately knelt beside Winky to try and calm her down. He whipped his head around, looking at his friends and Winky and the fireplace, both daring someone else to appear and wondering why the fuck there was a fucking fiesta in his living room.

And someone else did dare to come: Ginerva fucking Weasley. She also tumbled out of the fireplace and started yelling at Theo alongside Pansy. He watched the scene continue to unfold: Pansy and Ginny were yelling at Theo while Pansy was also trying to comfort Winky, Blaise was now trying to break up Pansy and Theo but couldn’t help yelling that all of them were fucking stupid, and poor Winky was standing there, nearly shaking. Then the *crack* of a slap rang through his ears and the room as all of them witnessed Pansy slap the daylights out of Theo, prompting him to yell, “Why the FUCK are all of you standing in my fucking living room? What the fuck is going on?!”

The entire group stopped arguing and stared at him, and the only sounds were the scared whimpers of Winky. Pansy and Ginny glared at Theo as they soothed her and he heard Pansy murmur something and Winky nodded, apperating out of his living room with a *pop*. 

Theo rolled his eyes and muttered something that provoked Ginny to slap him and ignite another screaming match. At this point he had enough and walked over to the kitchen and started banging two rather loud pans together to shut up his friends. In his anger to shut up his friends, he didn’t notice that they had stopped and were staring at him like he was a pixie gone mad. A loud “MALFOY!” got him to stop and see that they were looking at him questioningly. That’s when Pansy finally scrutinised him and her expression changed from confusion to utter disgust, “What the actual fuck happened to you?”

The rest of the group heeded her words and started looking at him closer. They, too, had expressions of disgust and concern (the latter was just the Weasley, which was shocking to him) and they all gingerly walked over to him. Instinctively, he backed away and flinched. He didn’t think that they cared, but they all backed up back into the living room and sat down on the sofas and chairs. Pansy’s (gentle) voice floated over, “Draco, we’re not here to interrogate you. We’re just concerned. Can you please come take a seat and talk to us?”

Reluctantly, he walked over and plopped himself on the empty space on the sofa. Four pairs of eyes looked him up and down as they took in his dis-shrivelled appearance. He attempted to sit up straight and hold an air of borderline-regality, but his body objected; the lack of eating, sleeping, or basic care finally caught up with him. Combined with the sudden burst of activity and chaos, his body gave up and he could feel himself falling off the couch as he drifted out of consciousness. The sounds of his friends frantically shrieking barely registered in his brain and he could feel their hands grabbing at him to keep him from hitting the floor. Nothing else registered as he swam in and out of consciousness and, eventually, fell into a sleep. There were no dreams or memories, but there was no comfort either. 

He woke to the smell of cooking, which confused him. Had she come home? Wearily yet hopefully, he tried to sit up and croaked, “Granger?”

A hand touched his shoulder and he grabbed at it like it was a lifeline, thinking about how much he missed her. He was trying to find the words to speak when the owner of the hand said, “What the hell, Malfoy?”

The wrong voice registered in his ears. He turned his head to see Theo sitting beside the bed with a “huh?” expression plastered across his face. He looked down at the hand he was grabbing and looked at Theo, looked at the hands again, looked at Theo again, then when his brain finally caught up, he practically shoved Theo’s hand away. “Disgusting. I need to wash my hands after touching a goblin like you.”

“I could say the same about you. Besides, you’re not really my type; I don’t go for twitchy ferrets.”

He flipped him off, trying to scour his brain for an insult for Theo, but miserably failed. He fell back into his pillow, exhausted from even the slightest social interaction. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Theo uncomfortably shift in his chair and he had to ask, “Theo, what the hell are you still doing here?”

“I’m following orders.”

“Why?”

“As much as I’d love to pitch you off a balcony or knock you off a broom, Pansy would kill then divorce me if I did even the slightest. Besides, her orders.”

He looked at Theo with wide eyes, “You and Pansy?”

“Don’t act surpri---you know what, never mind. Anyways, I’m here to make sure you don’t die from lack of care.”

“I can take care of myself, thank you very much.”

Theo snorted, “You fell off of the couch just by trying to sit up straight. You look worse than you did sixth and seventh year, and you were pretty fucked up back then. And I notice that the irritant cat isn’t around to give me a headache, meaning something happened with you and Hermione. So no, you’re not doing a good job at fucking taking care of yourself.”

If he had the ability, he would have punched Theo square in the nose for bringing up Granger. But alas, he just sank deeper into the bed and his despair and tried to ignore Theo’s presence and he fought the urge to cry. 

The bedroom door creaked open and Pansy poked her head in, “Is he awake?”

“Yes he is and he can speak, too!” he nearly shouted, his voice awfully cracking. 

Pansy made a *hmph* noise as she shoved the door open and brought in a tray. Blaise followed her in and helped him sit up in bed as Theo adjusted the pillows to keep him up and Pansy set the tray down across his lap. He eyed the contents of the tray suspiciously: a cup of broth and a slice of bread. That was when the Weasley rushed in with a steaming up of something and set it down on his tray before she dashed back out. Well then. He continued to eye the contents of his tray until a snippy voice chastised him, “For fucks sake, Draco, just eat the food!”

His stomach both rumbled and rebelled at the sight of food. After a week of not eating, he was famished and should have immediately dug in, but the thought of any food triggered waves of nausea to attack him. He stared at the tray some more, trying to coax away the nausea and bring back his appetite, but his body refused to budge. And he could tell that Pansy and Theo were holding back because the tension in the room threatened to choke him, alongside the nausea. 

Before anyone reacted, the door swung open again, and in came Weasley with a spoon. She picked up the cup she had set down earlier and started stirring with the spoon, “Mum said that honey would make this more effective and taste better.”

She handed him the cup and he eyed the green-tinted liquid inside. He sloshed it around the cup when the first whiff hit his nose: peppermint. Ginny had given him peppermint tea. 

His eyes started to sting again as his mum’s face floated up in his mind. Just the memory of her teaching him proper afternoon tea etiquette. Oh, how he loathed sitting up straight as his mum and the etiquette coaches drilled into him. Dress nicely, don’t clink the spoon while stirring, keep the spoon out of your mouth, dab with your napkin, only use milk and sugar for the black tea, stop popping whole sandwiches into your mouth. As a kid, he wanted nothing more than to hurl a scone at each one of them and to slurp the tea as loud as he could just to defy everything they said. But his mum would give him a look, pleading with her eyes for him to put up with it for a little bit longer. And he did, because he knew what would be coming: a warm mug of peppermint tea with honey, cauldron cakes, and time with his mum. They wouldn’t speak (because his mouth was full of cake) but they would sit side by side; him with his tea and his mum with her book; and spend the rest of the afternoon in each others’ company. 

And Granger, being Granger, somehow got him to tell her about his childhood at Malfoy Manor, including his afternoons with his mum. It was after that she had made sure there was always a fresh kettle of peppermint tea and jar of honey on the table when he came home from work; even if she was working late and had to Floo here and back. His beautiful Granger. Always in a hurry yet always took the time to think about him. And that’s what made the tea so much sweeter; not the honey, but the warm association it had with the two most important women in his life. 

An “Uh, Draco?” snapped him out of his longing. All four of the people in his room were staring at him like he had sprouted a pair of antlers. He tried to glare at them, “What the fuck are you staring at?”

No one spoke, but Theo fished a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to him. That’s when he felt his soaked cheeks; he was crying again. He silently accepted the handkerchief and mopped the tears off his face and stared at the cup of tea again. Another whiff of the peppermint and he was lost again, thinking about Granger and her mint obsession. She didn’t care for tea like he had, but she was obsessed with that mint muggle ice cream concoction. He remembered he had tried the flavour (labelled “Mint Chocolate Chunk”) on their first date, thinking it would resemble the mint of his tea. A load of rubbish. It was cloyingly sweet, ridiculously cold, and the addition of chocolate made his teeth feel like they were caving in. He tried to hide his expression because Granger was thoroughly enjoying it, but his poker face failed him. He initially felt stupid because he ate more than his share of sweets from Honeydukes, but Muggle sweets were a different level to him; it was nauseating how much sugar was in them. But she didn’t mind, “More for me!” she gleefully said as she helped herself to his portion (and afterwards, she insisted that they do tea or coffee-shops as dates, because she didn’t want him to choke down something he didn’t enjoy). 

There was commotion around him, but he didn’t notice. It was only when hands tried to gently pry the mug out of his hands that he realised something was happening. He refused to let go, but the hands got more insistent and soon, another pair showed up. They successfully pried the mug out of his iron grip and he sat there, defeated, as the soothing scent receded from his nose and left him feeling colder than ever. That was when Pansy’s voice floated into his ears, “Draco...what happened that night with Hermione?”. 

He looked up from his empty hands to see Pansy seated on the edge of his bed while Ginny was perched on the stool Theo was on earlier. He looked at her, his brain still stuck on mint. He looked around and found that the tray, Theo, and Blaise were gone and the door to the bedroom was shut. Pansy seemed to be on the verge of tears as she asked again, “Draco, what happened?” 

No words could come out of his mouth as that night flashed back into his mind. Her voice swirled into his head as every word of their conversation played, the volume of their speaking getting louder and louder until they were screaming at each other. The thump of a bowl as she slammed it back down onto the table as she yelled at him. His hands tightly clenched into fists as his blood boiled. Then he remembered the disgusting words he hurled at her and he was petrified as the very scene flashed in his eyes. The same feeling of shame washed over him as his mind forced him to relive that moment, and to remember the hurt in her eyes. Those brown irises locked him in and he could see the pain; the pain he had caused; before she turned and ran out the door. 

The memory of the slam didn’t just jolt him back to reality; it destroyed him. He didn’t know where the sobs had come from, but they were loud and frightening. And just like that, he, Draco Malfoy, broke again. 

Pansy gathered him into a hug and Ginny moved to sit on the other side of him, soothingly rubbing his back, and that’s how the three of them stayed for a while until he had cried himself out. He drained himself of all energy with each heaving sob, and his eyes started to slip shut while he felt the mattress shift and his covers being pulled over him as everything went fuzzy. 

When he came to again, Pansy was gone but Ginny was still there, sitting on the stool again, staring blankly out the window. A flash of light blazed through the glass, followed by a clap of thunder in the distance. Rain. How fitting for his foul mood. 

He struggled to sit up as he started to hear the pelt of drops on the glass. Steadily they fell, as the sky grew darker and their frequency became heavier. Each tap felt like a needle in his heart as his own rain fell from between his lashes; he and the sky were both battling their own internal storms. It was then that Ginny spoke, not tearing her eyes away from the storm outside, “When my best friend pops out of my fireplace at three in the morning sobbing loud enough to shake the house, the first thing I think about is whether or not I need to Avada the bastard that caused her to cry like this.”

His jaw clenched as she kept talking, “And you know, it’s always a fucking party when I have to calm her down and Floo us both to Pansy’s because she needs a strong drink and some quality time with people of character. So there we are, in some room of Nott Manor because Pansy moved in for the convenience of being able to fuck Theo whenever she wants, drinking Firewhiskey. And you know, Hermione’s not a heavy drinker; she could barely hold her champagne at Bill and Fleur’s wedding. But she’s downing these Firewhiskey shots like they were water and crying even harder as she told me about what happened. And Pansy and I both agree: you’re a vile, insufferable, spoiled, sorry-excuse-of-a-wizard, piece of shit.” 

It took all he had to not bark insults right back at Ginny. If he had the strength, he probably would have knocked her right off the stool. But alas, he was still bedbound; he didn’t even know if he could lift his arm. Besides, Ginny wasn’t finished.

“And we sat there telling her that if she said the word, we would hunt you down and make you wish that you were never born. We planned to humiliate you more than Professor Moody did during your fourth year. A ferret would be fun, but what else could we have done? We all graduated from Hogwarts; Death Eater or not, the two of us could have performed enough magic to chatter the teeth of Azkaban prisoners out of fear.”

His jaw and teeth felt like it was going to snap at any minute with how tightly he clenched them. Anger rushed through his ears and he was going to lose his shit at any minute now. But she still had more to say. 

“But instead of taking us up on this offer, she cried even harder and  _ begged  _ us not to do anything. You said some of the filthiest words to Hermione, and she still defended you as she cried tears  _ that you caused her to cry. _ ”

The venom in Ginny’s voice was worse than the pain he endured while receiving that ghastly dark mark. At least with the mark, he was blindly following orders as a stupid, scared child. But the acrimony dripping from Ginny’s tone sliced him open and left him bleeding out nothing but sorrows and regrets. He had demolished his relationship and himself with a sentence; all because he couldn’t control his fucking temper. Because he was a bleeding idiot who should have known better but instead chose to bury his head in the sand. And now? He was paying the price. He choked back more sobs as the waterworks began and his entire body began to shake like he was out in the freezing rain. 

Ginny’s mouth moved into a grimace as she spoke again, less venom in her voice this time, “I thought this entire time, you had been an arsehole to Hermione. Pansy, Theo, and Blaise tried to insist to me that you weren’t, but let’s be real: when you spend all of your school years and summers hearing your brother tell you what a dick Draco Malfoy is, you don’t really warm up to him easily, even if he’s dating your best friend.”

His jaw didn’t clench any tighter, but he did feel like he was drowning and Ginny’s words just yanked away the life preserver he was desperately clutching onto. He tried to calm himself down by reaching for the compact, which was lying on his nightstand. But before he could grab it, Ginny walked over and plucked it off of the table. He almost whined like a child because she took it, but the way she examined it with such intensity shut him up quickly. Her fingers gently caressed the emeralds laid in the compact as she turned it over in her hands. When she finally popped it open, he could tell she saw the picture that Hermione had pasted onto the bottom half of the compact; the way her steely expression softened. She looked at him and asked, “When did you give her this?”

“Two years ago.” he replied, 

Ginny turned away from him and continued to examine the compact. “You know, she never stopped taking this out to look at it. We’d be sitting on lunch break and Pansy would be saying something and of course, Hermione wouldn’t be paying attention because she either had her nose buried in work or a book or she had this out and was staring at it like it was a lifeline.”

He had to smile. Of course he knew; she would do the exact same thing in front of him. He sat up higher and he continued to watch Ginny observe the compact. The only sounds in the room were the *pitter patter* of the rain as it came down, until Ginny spoke once more, “I’m going to be honest. I didn’t really trust you because I didn’t know if you reciprocated the love that Hermione gave you. At every function or even when we have lunch together, you’re so aloof and cold; you don’t even smile at Hermione. So I thought for the longest time that you had trapped her in a loveless relationship or used amortentia on her. And believe me when I say that if it weren’t for Hermione begging me not to, I’d have jinxed you for my pure entertainment”

Her face softened noticeably as she continued to speak, “But now, after seeing you break down like that in front of Pansy and me, I know that it’s real. I’ve never seen someone become so distraught. I mean, yes, you deserve to suffer for your dreadful words, but when we first Floo-ed into your flat, you looked like Death himself dragged you back from the Afterlife to receive your eternal punishment. I was still angry though, and Pansy was too, but Theo and Blaise told us to hold out and hear your side of the story before cutting you off. And as much as I initially wanted to, I can’t cut Hermione off from the one person she truly loves.”

He didn’t say anything, but his sluggish brain registered the word “love” and started to kick into overdrive. He drew in a clear breath before shakily asking, “She still loves me?”

“I don’t know. You’re not off the hook just yet, Malfoy; just because you had an emotional breakdown and fell into a depressive episode doesn’t mean that your sins have been forgiven. It’s going to take time to rebuild a relationship that  _ you  _ destroyed with your own fucking mouth.”

The moment of clarity was gone. He sank back into the covers and willed himself not to cry again; the Weasley didn’t need to see him cry again. Instead, he let the silence take over until someone knocked on the door. The knocker poked their head in: Pansy. She saw him distraught and immediately beckoned Ginny out of the room. After they left, he allowed himself to release the tears from his eyes. He still felt choked up because he couldn’t release the sounds trapped in his throat, but he knew it was only fair for him to suffer when he caused all of Hermione’s current suffering. 

He had gone back to staring at the ceiling fan spin when the door creaked open again and entered all of them: Pansy, Theo, Blaise, and Ginny. They all plopped themselves on the bed and looked at him like he was an object of pity. In fact, Pansy put his head in her lap, and deja vu hit him; it felt like he had been transported back to the train compartment in the Hogwarts Express, where they were all in this exact position, with the addition of a Weasley. Pansy stroked his hair while Theo and Blaise awkwardly patted his legs and Ginny held one of his hands between his own. The five of them sat in silence again as the rain and wind beat against his window with a ferocity only rivaled by his own internal storm. 

Merlin knows how long they all sat there, but eventually he had to ask them all, “How did you move past the torture? How do you live with it; everything haunting you at once?”

“It never goes away, Draco. Everyday we live with the knowledge that we gave ourselves to someone who was nothing more than a mad man.” Theo said.

“We also didn’t have much choice; our parents were the ones who forced us to make life-or-death decisions.” Pansy replied softly. “You’re also a special case; you’re torn between still thinking that you’re a traitor to your bloodline and family because you defected and wondering if everyone else will truly accept you because your father’s actions tarnished your name.”

“Not many kids in your position would have the courage to do what you did either. To give up a family, an inheritance, a home; everything you know; because your moral conscience refused to align with them.”

Even Ginny piped in, “Besides, if you were truly evil, you wouldn’t have thrown Harry’s wand to him. You wouldn’t have slowly but surely betrayed Voldemort until you finally had the courage to defect from his army. You’re not evil, Draco.”

At least he wasn’t still viewed as an nasty, evil wizard. He let out a sigh that was both relief and a shaky sob but continued to shake as his own guilt ate away at him. “You’d think five years would allow you to at least recover from all the bullshit trauma that you went through.” he spat out with hints of anger in his voice. 

Ginny’s eyes seemed to age a century and bore into him as she spoke her next words, “Draco, you’ve never recovered. You’ve just learned how to pretend better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The number of hours I stared at the Google Doc and didn't write was actually frustrating, but it is what it is. 
> 
> Many thanks and love to everyone who read, left kudos and comments, and bookmarked; it means the world to small writers!
> 
> See you with chapter 4!


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